Page 31 of Matteo (The 4 Seats #1)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Eleanor Wang

T he warehouse looms before us, a beast of concrete and steel with shadows that swallow light whole. My pulse hammers against my throat, a desperate thrumming that begs me to turn back. I don't want this. I don't want to see his face—the face of a monster masquerading as a man.

"Come on, Princess," Matteo's voice slices through the dread, low and commanding. His hand is on my door before I even register he's left the car. Shit. I'm slipping, losing focus when I can't afford to let my guard down. Not here, not in the belly of the beast.

I slide out of the car, my legs feeling like they're made of something softer than flesh—something fragile and ready to break.

Matteo extends his hand, and for a moment, I almost laugh.

We could be headed to a dance, him in his dark, tailored menace and me in.

.. well, whatever scraps of courage I've stitched together for armour .

"Can't I just stay in the car?" The words tumble out, weak and hopeful.

"No." It's a finality, a statement that allows no argument. "I don't trust anyone here enough with your safety than me. I'm sorry, Princess, but you will be sitting in the room with me."

His hand doesn't waver, steady and sure, waiting for mine. I place my palm in his, a silent concession, and immediately his grip tightens. We move in tandem toward the warehouse doors, each step a march into hell.

Why? The question gnaws at me, a rabid beast with sharp teeth. Why did they choose me? It was a blow meant for Matteo, sure, but to them, I was nothing more than a pawn. A means to an end that didn't change the final play. They lost their damn war, but still, they came for me. Why?

My legs betray me, a slight stumble in my stride, but Matteo is there, arm slung around my waist, pulling me close.

"You're safe with me, Princess," he murmurs, lips grazing my temple—a kiss that's meant to comfort but feels more like a brand.

He's all heat and power, the kind of dangerous that makes people cross the street to avoid him.

"Ready, Princess?" His voice is a blade, cutting through any illusion of gentleness he might have offered moments before.

As ready as I'll ever be, I think but don't say. Instead, I nod, bracing myself for what's to come. With Matteo, it's always a gamble—will he be the shield or the sword today?

And as we step into the darkness of the warehouse, I know it's time to find out.

The stench hits me like a punch to the gut, a rancid mix of decay and bleach. I gag, my body recoiling against the invisible assault. "Doesn't this smell make you wanna vomit?" I choke out, glaring at Matteo.

He's unfazed, his dark eyes scanning the shadows that cling to the high ceilings. "It used to," he admits, almost wistful. "But I've gotten used to it now."

I frown, disbelief etching lines into my forehead. "Gotten used to it?" The very idea seems ludicrous. How does one get accustomed to the scent of death?

"Yep." He nods as if recalling a fond memory. "Dad bought this warehouse back in the '80s. Spent enough time in here to build up a tolerance, I reckon."

I press a hand over my nose, trying to ward off the olfactory offence. "I don't think any number of years would get me used to this smell," I mutter, voice muffled behind my fingers.

"Breathing through your mouth helps," he suggests, and I oblige.

I drop my hand, taking in a careful breath.

The foulness still invades, but it's dulled, muted.

A very fucking small comfort. But I'm not here to be comfortable.

I'm here to show them—the men who thought they could use me as a pawn—that they failed.

I will stand in front of one of those bastards with a smile on my face.

"Ready, Princess?" Matteo's tone is low, a rumble of thunder before a storm.

"As I'll ever be," I reply, steel lacing my words. His hand gives a reassuring squeeze, a reminder that he's here, solid as the concrete under our feet.

"Remember what I said in the car?" His voice holds an edge, sharp enough to cut through bone. It contrasts starkly with the tenderness he'd shown me just moments before.

I nod, because we both know the drill. I'll either heed his warning or throw it to the wind. Depends on how deep we wade into this bloody mess.

Matteo's grip on the door is firm, decisive.

The hinges groan as we step into a place of nightmares—a torture room so stark and grim it could freeze the blood in your veins.

My gaze trails from the rusty hooks on the walls to the lone blow torch resting on a table, its very presence a silent promise of pain.

The floor slopes down towards the center where a metal grate awaits like the gaping maw of some mechanical monster, ready to swallow the remnants of humanity.

It's that fucking grate that does me in.

My legs give out, betraying me with a suddenness that leaves my heart stuttering in my chest. Matteo's arm bands around my waist, pulling me back from collapse.

"Easy, Princess," he murmurs, his voice a dark melody against the backdrop of this hellish orchestra.

"Thanks," I manage to get out, as Spike, quick on his feet, slides a chair beneath me. I drop onto it like a marionette with cut strings.

Spike throws Matteo a glare sharp enough to slice through steel. "She shouldn’t be in here boss."

"Give her a sec," Matteo's retort slices the tension hanging thick in the air. His confidence is an anchor I need.

I lift my head, and there he is—Toni. A spectre from my darkest dreams, brought to life, dangling from chains, toes grazing the cold floor. Blood mars his face, but not enough to hide his identity. The sight of him, weak and at our mercy, ignites something feral within me.

"Nice of you to drop in, Toni," Matteo taunts with a cruel chuckle, approaching the man who's been the fuel for endless nightmares.

He rolls up his sleeves casually, revealing inked skin that tells tales of violence and power.

As he moves, I catch sight of the outline of a bag in his back pocket—a sick kind of lifeline.

It's fucked up, isn't it? That this... this assurance that even Matteo, the kingpin of our twisted world, carries something as mundane as a vomit bag, is what grounds me. It's a reminder that even monsters have their Achilles' heel. And somehow, that's humbling—endearing, almost.

"Ready to sing for us, Toni?" Matteo's voice is deceptively calm, but his eyes, those pools of darkness, they're alight with a fire that could scorch souls.

"Let's get this fucking show started."

Toni's voice is all acid and defiance, dripping with a venom that makes my blood ice over. "I don't know what you want from me."

Matteo stands there, the epitome of unflappable, a chilling calmness in his demeanour that belies the storm I know is raging just beneath the surface.

"Well let's start with the names of the other two who accompanied you to Eleanor’s apartment ten years ago," he says, his voice a lull before the inevitable storm.

This isn't the man I love. This is something else, something darker—a force that even the shadows fear. He's the Mafia leader now, wearing a mask of icy composure that I can't peel back.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," Toni spits back, but it's like throwing sparks on gasoline.

"Ten years ago, you forced your way into Eleanor’s apartment, raped her along with two other cunts, then left her with a note to disappear," Matteo recites the horrors like he's reading off a dinner menu, arms crossed, leaning against cold metal that seems to absorb his chill.

He plucks the blow torch from the table, giving the knob an experimental twist. It's not a question anymore—it's a sentence. "I'll ask some questions; you'll answer them. Every lie? Spike will chop a piece off you, and I’ll cauterise the wound. Got it?"

"But I don’t—" Toni starts, desperation creeping into his tone.

"Shut it, Toni. I wasn’t finished." The torch roars to life in Matteo's hand, flames dancing like devils at a black mass. "You will die tonight. How many pieces you're in—that's on you. What are their names?"

"No." That single syllable hangs heavy between them, a challenge.

"No what?" Matteo’s brow arches in mock curiosity. But there's no real question in his eyes—just a dark promise.

"I’m not going to talk; kill me, but I’ll die with my secrets," Toni growls, but there's an edge of panic there now.

The strike is swift—a punch to the gut that sucks the breath right out of Toni. "Think so? I always get what I need," Matteo snarls, grabbing Toni's foot in an iron grip as Spike steps forward, blade gleaming wickedly in his hand.

It's a fucking nightmare made flesh as Spike slices through toes like they're nothing more than rotten fruit. The torch hisses, searing flesh and bone, stopping the bleeding, filling the air with the sickening scent of charred meat. My stomach churns, bile rising in my throat.

"Christ," I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut, willing away the stench of cooked human that's clawing its way into my mouth, threatening to spill over.

A gentle touch on my cheek pulls me back from the edge, and Matteo's hushed voice is in my ear, "It’s okay, Princess.

I brought extra bags tonight." His finger trails down my face, leaving a trail of warmth, and the rustling of plastic signals the lifeline he's offering—a simple bag that feels like salvation in this moment.

Breathing through my mouth to keep from retching, I grasp the bag tightly, finding solace in the twisted tenderness of Matteo's foresight. Even here, even now, he thinks of me, protects me in his own warped way.